Unplanned Proceedings
by Sureluck
Summary: My first Elementary fic. Just a little one-shot fantasy of Joan and Sherlock finally getting together.


**Unplanned proceedings**

Joan was walking back from the date with friends she had cut short. For some reason, she had not been fully present at the event, and found her thoughts drifting, usually to the most recent cases and things Sherlock had observed or said. She found herself, during those rare times when there was no active case, compulsively replaying old ones in her mind. Often these reveries ended up fixating on some aspect of Sherlock's fascinating mind, and that bothered her for some reason, so she was happy to see the steps of the brownstone and climb inside to find something to busy herself. She heard Sherlock active in the kitchen and went to join him and get a drink of water.

"I thought you were out this evening," Sherlock commented when Joan came into the kitchen where he was standing at the sink making tea. She noticed his knit brown when he glanced at her over his shoulder.

Joan shrugged. "I didn't feel like it after all." She didn't know why she'd bailed on her friends exactly. It was a warm summer night and she felt hot and sticky despite her light cotton dress. She felt restless to get off the street… to get home. Maybe she just needed a cold shower, a big tee shirt, and a good book tonight.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "So you'll be staying in then," he probed.

Joan stopped her fidgeting with different kitchen accoutrements and looked at him suspiciously. "Is that a problem?" she asked his back as he fussed with tea at the counter, the kettle now set to boil over the flickering blue flame of the stove.

Sherlock froze momentarily, then turned abruptly to face her, his hands at his sides, fingers clenching and releasing repeatedly. "Not a problem, as such. But I'd be remiss if I didn't inform you as to my plans for the evening."

At that moment the door buzzer sounded and they locked eyes for a moment. Joan narrowed hers and Sherlock narrowed his in response. The expressions weren't mean or angry, but rather curious, reflecting the way they both used their knack for detecting subtleties to size up situations and people.

Joan started walking up the stairs, her short loose dress flowing lightly over her skin, which was now slightly goosebumped in anticipation. This feeling was why she loved her job, why she loved the brownstone and all it represented, and why she loved her friend. So much mystery. She was ultra-present now.

"I had thought you'd be out this evening," Sherlock called again up the stairs. Then "Needs, Watson!" as she strode down the hall toward the door, quickening her pace as she sensed his growing discomfort. He was just a half dozen steps behind her in a feeble attempt to control the situation. "A person has needs," he expanded halfheartedly, the final words fading to a whimper as Joan opened the door. There stood a curvaceous blond woman whom she'd met briefly once before; one of Sherlock's other sort of "companions." The woman smiled at Joan, obviously used to the unexpected when it came to Sherlock.

"Hi!" she said cheerfully.

"Hi," Joan replied evenly, her brain overwhelmed with eight million thoughts. They were flowing so quickly—thoughts about this situation, about her cancelled plans, about his "needs," about why she preferred to be home tonight, about her life and his life and their life—that it almost felt like slow motion when she said to the woman, "Sherlock is sick. He needs to cancel the plans."

The woman looked both disappointed and concerned. "Sick? Can I help him in any way?"

"No," Joan replied assertively. "Thank you, but I have it under control." She closed the door gently in the woman's face.

She stood there for a moment, her hand frozen on the doorknob, and felt his eyes on her back from his position at the end of the hall. She turned slowly and looked at him, then began walking toward him at a measured pace. His expression was inscrutable, but she detected a hint of worry. Hers was equally inscrutable, but he detected a hint of determination.

She reached him and stopped to look up into his eyes. "I had thought you'd be out this evening," he said quietly.

Joan simply nodded stoically and replied, "I know."

"I go to great pains to strategically schedule my requisite trysts so as not to infringe on your time in what is also your home."

"I know."

"And it is noteworthy that our evenings, of late, are rarely free of work. Tonight is an anomaly."

"I know."

There was a beat of silence.

"I am not sick," he teased gently.

She arched an eyebrow in response, which prompted the slightest upward tug at the corner of his mouth. This was as close as they came to flirting—almost micro-expressions.

But now Joan put her fingers to that hint of a smile, startling them both. Sherlock physically jumped, but stood there. Then, without letting herself think it through, focusing only on the very real reason she decided to stay home that evening—to be near him—she put her arms around his neck and hopped upward, wrapping her legs around him and forcing him to instinctually move his hands under her for support. Their noses almost touched. They looked directly into each other's eyes.

Joan thought about how long she had wanted to do this, how many times she had fought an impulse to occupy a quiet moment alone with him with a dramatic overture. Sherlock thought about how unexpected this was and how he hadn't prepared for this scenario in any way, though he had prepared in dozens of ways for what might follow. They were both thinking about how much they had thought about this.

"Are you ready?" she asked him.

His eyes roved over her face maniacally, searching her. "Not as such," he muttered, but while he pulled her hips closer against his.

So she kissed him anyway, despite his thoughtful honesty that often took the shine off a situation. Her lips met his and her body seemed to scream, "Finally!" in a sigh of exhilaration and abandon.

Despite his "not as such," Sherlock met her mouth with fervor, his lips and tongue exploring hers with the attention his eyes would give a crime scene. Joan felt one of his hands slide slowly down her thigh. At her knee he started moving back up, dragging his nails gently against her smooth skin. The feeling of this and their position against the hallway wall reminded Joan that Sherlock, despite his English manners, was not a "Let's retire to the bedroom for a nightcap, shall we?" type of man. She'd witnessed the edges and residue of ornate and multi-casted sexual endeavors he'd orchestrated—knowledge that simultaneously turned her off and turned her on—and she now realized, with the light scratch of his fingernails, that she hadn't just jumped. She'd jumped off the high-dive. Into Jell-O.

Sherlock was thinking similar thoughts. He'd desired her, of course. She was brilliant and strong and beautiful. She was things he didn't even know he wanted. And he'd indulged that desire in his mind repeatedly, and in a plethora of ways. Perhaps most telling was that in his sexual dalliances he had never solicited women that physically resembled Watson in the least because he feared tempting his desire for her to play out in a fantasy world that wasn't worthy of her.

The tea kettle sounded its shrill whistle and Sherlock, trying to communicate to Watson that if they were going to do this then they were going to _do_ this, walked toward the stairs without setting her down or breaking their long, slow kiss. He opened his eyes to see his way to the kitchen and found hers looking right back into his. She felt his hand leave her body to turn off the burner, and when his palm reconnected with her skin it drew from her an involuntary moan into his mouth that mingled with the slowly dwindling shriek of the kettle.

Her moan—a glimpse of the out-of-control Watson—turned him on beyond expression. He continued walking, and kissing, and stumbling them back up toward the living room, trying not to bang her against furniture and doorjambs. They paused at the threshold where he pressed her against the doorframe to let his hands roam. She tightened her arms around him as he cupped one side of her face and kissed her deeply. Then he eased her head to the side so he could kiss down her neck, his stubble against her collarbone making her crazy. She could feel his chest rising and falling against her body, not peacefully, but wildly. He _did_ want this after all. All this time.

He slid a hand to find hers and grasped it. She squeezed, more tightly the more his kisses trailed toward her breasts. He pulled back a little and stared at her, almost panting, but eyes even and calm. She caught his stare and straightened her lolling head to meet it. "What are you doing?" she asked, slightly self-conscious, worried he might suddenly be rethinking it all.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady. "I'm learning you."

As he held her there she was reminded how strong he was. In his modest clothes and demeanor it was not always so obvious, but she'd catch him in a workout sometimes and struggle not to look at his lean physique. But now the way he now carried her around the flat and bent to effortlessly scoop up a blanket and toss it on the living room floor as he held her, she was reminded of his body. And she wanted it everywhere.

He laid her down on the floor and she felt the radiant heat of the fire—lit despite the hot summer weather—penetrating her skin, warming her very bones. Sherlock was above her, propped on one arm while his free hand slipped over the fabric of her dress and danced at the edges, feeling her shape. His eyes flitted from her face to her body and she saw consternation forming on his features, even as he kissed her chin, her jaw, her ear. He was overwhelmed by his options. She was out of her mind already, and delighted that her grand risk had panned out so exquisitely. Rather than being uninterested or, worse yet, offended, Sherlock was ferocious in his attention to her. She'd unleashed a lion, and realizing that it had been in there all this time, ready to pounce, was incredibly erotic. His "needs." His self-control. His hedonism. His discipline. The tug-of-war inside of him was evident and attracted her all the more.

His hands were poised at the neckline of her dress. "May I?" he asked, his voice thick and rough despite the courteous phrase.

Joan raised her eyebrows in inquiry. "May you what?"

"I am of the firm opinion that ripping this dress off of you would enhance our experience, but due to the fact that I have no idea as to its cost, I am seeking to ensure that such course of action would not result in the opposite of my intended consequences."

A polite, very British lion had been unleashed.

Joan smiled. "It would enhance _my_ experience, yes." Sherlock nodded, satisfied, a small smirk evident on his face before he tore her dress at the neckline and began kissing his way down the opening he continued to create. Joan felt his stubble along her newly exposed skin, his strong hands cupping her shape as the fabric fell away. Sherlock felt like he was unearthing a treasure he'd been searching for for years. He'd imagined what she must look like again and again. With the dress now gone, he sat back and stared at her body clad only in thin lace now.

He was silent initially, then said simply, "You're stunning." Her eyes twinkled at him, even more so in the firelight, and he knew he was a lost cause now; a new addiction had fully taken hold.

Joan reached up to his collar and unbuttoned the characteristically fastened top button, but then she thought better of her actions. "May I?" she asked.

Sherlock fought back a grin and said levelly, "Watson, surely you have realized by this point that nothing I wear is worth anything at all. By all means." She pulled and buttons went flying. And there was his body—his chest, then his arms as she slid the shirt from his shoulders.

"Enhanced experience," she murmured as she unabashedly ogled him.

Sherlock barely noticed as he was ogling back, his hands magnetically pulled toward all the lace-covered areas. Suddenly he paused, pushed onto his arms all the way, and looked at her seriously.

"I have deduced by your cancellation of my appointment, your straddling of my hips, and your subsequent physical and auditory reactions that I have your full permission to proceed. Am I correct? You are… comfortable?"

Joan suppressed an eye roll. "Proceed away, Sherlock. Don't stop proceeding." These words provoked a most wolfish grin from him before he explored her body with zeal. His mouth proceeded from hers, to her jaw, to her neck, her breasts. His hands proceeded from her ribs, upward to her shoulders, her face, her hair, then downward to her belly, her hips, her thighs.

He proceeded. And it made her insane. As strange and jealous as his sexual habits had made her feel in the past, she was currently vaguely thankful that his sexual practices and obsessive mind had combined in a way that could result in this—her bucking hips, her shortness of breath, her mounting desire, and the stars she saw when he finally sprung the tight coil he had been creating inside her.

When she cried out, her ecstasy throbbing itself to a slowly smoldering extinguishment against his hand, he was right there, watching her, studying how her eyes moved, how her mouth was shaped when she called his name and the babbled syllables of her orgasm. He was rapt. He was awed. He was desperate from more. Only one other thing in this world had made him believe he could risk everything just to have that feeling again, and ironically, she had entered his life to help him with that addiction. Now she'd usurped it and he was greedy for her. A junkie.

Before Joan had even recovered she felt him, even more if that was possible. His mouth was everywhere. His fingers played her body like an instrument. The fabric that had been still somewhat hooked and draped on her was torn away like so much Christmas packaging. When his tongue expertly showed her other realms again, her last coherent thought was about how his eyes looking up to watch her didn't make her feel shy or coy. She felt how she always had when he watched her—important, and interesting, and free to be her authentic full self, because he wanted nothing else. So she gave that to him again.

She'd moaned something about wanting him and he obliged, moving inside in ways that both soothed her craving and created a new all-consuming desire for more. The latter grew because he was too controlled, too methodical, too fucking measured. _This is Sherlock and Watson, for chrissakes,_ her brain shouted _. Act like it_. She shoved against his chest to signal for him to roll over and he obeyed. As she sat there on his hips, breathless and nearly faint, she looked at him through a curtain of her hair and asked, "May I proceed?"

Sherlock's face was twitchy with thoughts and want. "By all means" And so she did. Her mouth proceeded over his sternum, over every inch of his stubble, even the tip of his smug nose. Her hands proceeded over his muscles and tendons, straining and pulsing against her palms. Her hips proceeded to show him how to do this without thinking so much.

One word. She wanted to hear him say one thoughtless word. A "God" or "fuck" or "yes," though the latter made some sense. She wanted to penetrate his wall of logic and control and practicality. To access—even briefly—a part of him that he showed no one. Pain didn't do it. Fear didn't do it. Could pleasure? Desire? Connection? L-…

Best not to think too much herself.

She fell off her edge before she could solicit it, but the very act of her falling is what drew it from him. As she lost control all around him, he followed suit and she heard a whispered "please" amidst the more expected sounds escaping his lips. And it satisfied her. Always so polite. She had tricks that might change that. With time…

Best not to think too much.

She curled over him as they came down, her hair draping over his torso, his hands still loosely cupping her hidden face. He rolled her over and mirrored the position, kissing her belly gently and holding her waist. They lay there, his head on her chest, limbs tangled, catching their breaths.

"So, a new exercise," she quipped, tentatively prodding his thoughts. He knew she was nervous because the fingers that had been twisting his hair were now still. He smiled against her skin at her naiveté about his feelings. He rolled over to stretch out alongside her and stare at the ceiling.

"Indeed," he replied cryptically. Joan swallowed hard. Swallowed her feelings. Swallowed everything she wanted to say. He noticed, of course. "Yes, Watson?"

"Exercise," she repeated. "To clear our heads occasionally," she added, hoping for a shred of hope that this was not an isolated event. His sweat still on her skin could not be an aberration. Her taste still on his tongue could not be a miscalculation.

Sherlock laughed a little before rolling onto his side to look at her face, her eyes averting.

"You've never cleared my head, dear Watson," he told her. She looked at him now. "Quite the opposite." She bit her cheek to contain her broad smile a bit. "And," he continued, "I'm compulsive and prone to addictive behavior. 'Occasional' is not my style, shall we say."

Joan laughed. At first a little and then it grew into hysterics. He watched her, amused.

"I'm-" she stammered, having trouble speaking. "I'm your sober companion," she choked out.

Sherlock rolled back onto his back. "Yes, you're terrible at that. If anything, your presence in my life has increasingly tempted me to dull my longing with chemicals." Now Joan rolled over and perched her head on his chest to look at him. "You're sacked, Watson." He stroked her back with one hand and rubbed his face with the other.

"Sherlock…" He was going all in, so she felt she owed it to him to do the same. "I love you. In a million ways. I know you don't really believe in love, but—"

"I believe in you," he interrupted. "In a multitude of ways." She smiled at his precise language. "And if that _feeling_ is what the human race has labeled as 'love,' well then, it is quite certain that I love you in return.

She grinned. "Sometimes I don't know if you're a robot or just super British."

He grinned back. "You may commence swooning now."


End file.
